Hope
by Barcardivodka
Summary: Ronon was a runner. Prisoner of the Wraith. Never to be a free man again. Ronon. Short


Written for the LFWS Challenge

Many thanks to my fellow Trippy's - LOL

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**Hope**

Ronon ran. Leaf covered branches slapped against him as he raced through the forest, thorny undergrowth tagging and tearing at his clothing. Pain threatened to overwhelm him but he knew he couldn't stop, couldn't slow down, his breath came out in ragged gasps as he pushed for more speed. He could hear the Wraith behind him; he knew it was close, too close.

It had taken him three days to whittle down their numbers; from a hunting party of five, only the Wraith behind remained. He was beyond exhausted; he hadn't eaten in days. He had killed two of the Wraith by luring them to traps he had set in the forest, the other two he had had to go hand to hand. Wraith didn't die easily, they were stronger and faster than humans, able to muddle your mind with false images and it took more than one slice of the sword to ensure they would never rise again.

Ronon suddenly dived to the right, snagging a vine as he rolled. A spear-sharp branch swept down from the trees impaling the Wraith. It fell to its knees, foul blood bubbling from its mouth as it clawed at the branch, attempting to pull it from its body. Ronon stood slowly, his eyes never leaving the fallen Wraith, savouring its pain. He drew his sword as he walked towards it.

He swung the sword, taking off the Wraith's head.

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Ronon leant back against the sun warmed rock, wincing as the movement pulled on his injured side. He looked down, checking to make sure the _Arot _moss he had pounded into a paste was still stuck to the wound that run the length of his flank, just under his ribs.

Assured that his wound was properly cared for, he rested his head against the rock and closed his eyes, soaking up the warmth of the day. He listened to the sounds of the world around him. The rustle of leaves from the nearby forest, the occasional flap of his tunic as it dried on a nearby bush. The crackle and spit of the fire as fat dripped into the flames from the roasting birds he had caught earlier, the scent of the cooking meat making his stomach rumble with anticipation.

He had gone through the Ring four times after his run in with the Wraith hunting party, before he settled for this world. He had laid traps throughout the forest yesterday, learning the lay of the land, listening to the natural sounds of the abandon world. He had set up camp near a gently flowing river. The Ring was in front of him on the other side of the river, hidden by the forest.

He let himself relax. His wounds were tended to, his traps laid and his hunger would soon be satisfied. He should be safe here for another day or two at least, but he would move on come first light. He couldn't afford for the Wraith to find him again so soon.

Seven years he had been the plaything of the Wraith. No matter how many he killed, he would never be free of them. A hand strayed to touch the scars on his back; they weren't all from where the Wraith had implanted the tracking device. Some were by his own hand as he tried to cut the device out in desperation and despair years before. He let his hand drop.

Why did he fight so hard to live? The Wraith would never free him and for seven years he had tried to free himself, to no avail. He was alone. His people gone, his world destroyed. His family, his friends, his love, all gone.

He looked down at his knives and sword lying in a line beside him, cleaned and sharpened, ready for battle once more. He picked up the nearest knife, twirling it slowly in his hands. A quick deep cut to the underside of his wrist, a moment's pain and his life of torment would be over. If the old Satedan scholars were right, he would be with his family again, once again in the loving embrace of Milena, forever free of the Wraith.

He had thought about it a thousand times, but something always stopped him, his warrior upbringing, his hatred for the Wraith, the small flicker of hope that he could never extinguish.

He placed the knife back with the others. He shifted forward, wincing again as he jarred his wound. He plucked the spit that held the birds from the fire and tore at the meat with his teeth, moving back to settle against the rock with a grunt.

Tomorrow he would move on, he would continue to fight the Wraith, to survive.

One day he would be free.


End file.
